


The Witcher and the Horror Fiction Writer

by westmoor



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, No Plot/Plotless, Non-Linear Narrative, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Self-Indulgent, horror fiction writer Jaskier, the only thing dumber than the main characters is the author, they're stupid your honour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westmoor/pseuds/westmoor
Summary: Geralt of Rivia is a Witcher. He hunts monsters, fights evil, and makes the world a safer place.Jaskier is a horror fiction writer. He knows fuck all about monsters. But when his (very attractive) next-door neighbour starts acting suspiciously, he's certain he has found himself a muse in a real-life Witcher. Almost certain. Like, ninety percent.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 86
Kudos: 120





	1. the house at the end of the street

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of shorts and ficlets spurred by tumblr and poor 3am decisions. They're not very good but they are blessedly short.

There was a house at the end of the street. 

To the untrained eye it might’ve looked abandoned, paint sun-bleached and peeling, the roof ominously saddle-backed, and the front yard seemingly hadn’t seen as much as a shadow of a sharp object since sometime last century. 

It looked, at the lack of a better term, really fucking creepy.

Jaskier _adored_ it.

It had been the catalyst for his coming out here in the first place, why he’d bullied his friend into lending him their cottage a little down the road, the only one in sight of the decrepit building. He’d hoped that if he stared at it long enough, walked around a few times, he might be able to extrapolate some kind of story out of it. 

It wasn’t much of a secret that he’d been running a little dry lately. The summer had been nice, and his last piece reasonably well-received, his social media engagement adequate, but he needed something _new_. Something with a twist, a little more punch - 

And he’d found it. He was pretty sure he’d found it. He was ninety - eighty-five percent sure he’d found just the thing.

The house at the end of the street was not abandoned. 

He had a _neighbour_.

It had been a while before he’d spotted the truck parked outside, soon learning that it came and went at seemingly random hours throughout the day and night. Efforts to track the driver’s schedule had eventually introduced him to the driver himself and Jaskier had decided, right then and there, from the first gleam of pale hair to the scrape of something weighty being heaved from to trunk and onto the gravel, that this would be his new inspiration.

So far, though, the bouts of inspiration he’d found had come in the shape of furious blushing and weak knees. And Jaskier was many things, most of which he’d even admit to, but he was _not_ a trashy romance writer.

And Jaskier hadn’t chosen his new muse on the grounds that he was smoking hot. Not at all. It’d had nothing to do with the man’s frankly intimidating height or the impressive width of his shoulders, or the way the muscles in his arms coiled under the cotton tee or those black-jeans-clad-goddamn _thighs_. Or how despite that silver-white hair he didn’t look a day past his thirties, or how that jawline could cut freaking glass, or -

Come to think of it, Jaskier mused, maybe he actually was a trashy romance writer.

But no. Jaskier had picked him because he had known, by the impossible schedule, the secrecy, the way the house was never lit and the glimpse of a gun and at least three long blades of varying descriptions, and the memorable night he’d heard the unmistakable sound of shovelling dirt after returning from a particularly late night drive, that he finally had something. Something real.

He was ninety-nine point nine - ninety-seven point three, maybe - percent sure of his case when he finally mustered his courage and sauntered up the front steps to see if the doorbell still worked.

—

“So you’re telling me,” Yennefer said, swirling the wine in her glass. “You went up to Geralt and introduced yourself, assuming based on that information and that information alone, that he was a -”

“- Witcher,” Jaskier confirmed, beaming. “And of course, I was right! I am, after all, the very best at what I do. Despite what Valdo fucking Marx and that pathetic herd of amateurs he calls a crew might try to tell you -”

“Jaskier.” The tone of her voice and the way her eyebrows cocked so severely they looked positively divorced was - for once - enough to stop him in his tracks. “Jaskier, you’re an _idiot_. For the love of- He could’ve been a serial killer!”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s face went suddenly blank. “Oh, cock.”


	2. your neighbour's a serial killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should note that this story - if it is a story - doesn't have any actual plot. No plot, only stupidity.

“I’m ninety percent sure your neighbour’s a serial killer.”

His brother was seated at the kitchen table, peering out between dingy curtains.

“Seriously. What’s he even doing up here? His schedule makes no fucking sense. He doesn’t have much of a social life, that’s for sure. And I swear, it feels like he’s watching…”

“He’s not a serial killer.” Geralt grumbled, dismissing the notion with a shake of his head. “He’s… some kind of artist.”

In truth, his neighbour could be an artist. Geralt honestly had no idea.

He wasn’t going to find out, either. He may have spotted the young man from time to time, in the driveway running to or from his car or through the windows pacing from room to room, or he might’ve listened to him singing to himself every now and then. But that was mostly because that startlingly red hoodie he had worn was impossible to overlook, or because as slight as he looked from a distance the boy sure had some lungs on him and Geralt would’ve had to be deaf not to hear.

And if he had spent a few long days and nights observing how his neighbour carried himself - always projecting and gesticulating, even when he was alone - and wondering what his voice sounded like just talking, or if those hands were as deft as they appeared then, well, that was his own business.

It certainly wasn’t Lamberts.

And he wasn’t going to turn himself into a _stalker_ by finding out what he did for a living, or what his name was, how he took his coffee or whether he liked to go for dinner, or anything like that.

“Have you talked to him?” Lambert raised an eyebrow.

“No.” 

And he wasn’t going to. He wasn’t going to tempt himself to something he couldn’t have, or invite himself to a relationship - if that was even an option, he didn’t even know the guys _name_ \- he wouldn’t be able to fulfill. It was too complicated.

Most people didn’t even know what witchers were anymore, much less believed they actually existed. He would either have a shitload of explaining and convincing to do, or worse, he would’ve had to lie.

Geralt wasn’t built for lying.

\---

He’d been in most of the day at that point, and the sky had begun to darken. The front hall lights still weren’t working and he had given up on fixing them, along with the porch light - an issue with the fuse, most likely. The doorbell was also a lost cause, but he’d put less effort into that, seeing as the only people likely to visit him were also the people most likely to show up unannounced and let themselves in without asking for permission.

It was mostly luck, then, that he happened to have the front porch clear in view from his regular spot in the kitchen, or he might’ve missed the visitor entirely.

And if it wasn’t for his regrettably sharp eyesight, and the immediate sweeping desire to study the man’s face in detail and up close, he also might’ve missed the rich blue of his eyes or how his hair curled at the ends, or how that smile spelled trouble.


	3. brotherly advice

“They’re not that bad, actually,” said Eskel, watching curls of steam rise from the generous mug of tea encompassed by his hands. “I’ve read a couple of them.”

“You read horror novels now?” Lambert cut in, kicking his boot out under the table and leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. “Can’t get enough work, so now you have to imagine it?”

Eskel just shrugged, tactfully ignoring the jab, and continued to his point. “It’s mostly drivel, obviously - I bet the guy wouldn’t know a werewolf if it bit him, I’m surprised he figured you out - but he’s a decent writer. Tells a good story.”

Geralt hummed noncommittally. He regretted updating them on the whole situation after his neighbour - Jaskier, he’d now learned - had sauntered up to his front door one late afternoon and introduced himself, explained that he was in the area working on a book, and let slip that he had from chance glances at a two hundred feet distance identified Geralt in all but name. 

It was impressive. And worrying. Maybe in part because Geralt himself had spent the last several weeks making speculations on the nature of his scent and decisively _not_ making any moves to find out.

(He had a warm and earthy sort of smell, it turned out, with a hint of something fresh and herblike, neither oppressive nor sharp. Had Geralt been a romantic, it might’ve reminded him of a birch grove after rain, the subtle waft of petrichor through an open window. The sort of scent that didn’t change - not out here, anyway - no matter how many years or seasons passed around him, it always sprung back. A little piece of every home he’d ever had.

Geralt wasn’t a romantic.)

But Lambert smelled trepidation like a harehound smelled a half-stale bread roll under a cupboard, and it had been clear from the moment he stepped through the door that the only way out was through. 

And, well. Now they knew what little there was to know. And seemed  _ far  _ too happy about it. Like they either didn’t know or just didn’t care about Geralt’s weeks of unwarranted inner turmoil over a man who was out of reach in every possible way, or worse: Like they absolutely knew the strife and depth of their brother's inner conflict and _delighted_ in it.

And oh fuck, they couldn’t know. Could they?

“What are you saying?” Geralt finally relented, and Eskel shrugged again, finally looking up from where he still warmed his hands on the tea. And to his credit, he didn’t seem to be mocking him - unlike his younger counterpart across the table. 

“All I’m saying is, I think you should figure out what he’s after first.”

“First?” It slipped out unbidden despite his eagerness to close the conversation, but once out in the air, Geralt doubled down with a glare, unwilling to give Lambert more proverbial skin to sink his non-proverbial teeth into.

“Before you decide what to do with that mammoth of a crush you have on the guy, of course.”

Geralt nearly sputtered. Eskel watched him serenely, taking a sip of his tea.

“Or,” Lambert helpfully interjected, “You could just fuck.”


	4. a very romantic near-death experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original prompt for this came courtesy of @transcendental-is-em on tumblr. Ty buddy

He hadn’t meant to wander out this far, but by the time he realised he had veered off the path, he couldn’t say for sure where he’d left it.

It had been a fine day, unusually warm for the season, and it had seemed like a perfect opportunity to get out of the house and seek out some new scenery. He had the bare bones of a story, he thought, something that could be something if he could just nail it down.

So when Geralt some days earlier had mentioned hunting something in the nearby woods, a hulking, crawling, venomous beast, he’d rejoiced at the prospect. He had it! He had the hook.

Unfortunately, as much as Jaskier loved hearing the man talk - he’d write an ode to the grit of that voice someday - he was notoriously stingy on the details. Stingy on words in general, actually. Damn near impossible to get a story out of, and any hope for exposition was dead on arrival. 

And thus, he abandoned his laptop and the comforts of home, and set out for the woods for the afternoon with naught but a trusty old notebook. And his phone, of course, with GPS, because he wasn’t _dim_.

  
  


The forest around him grew moodier as the afternoon crawled toward evening, what light had recently filtered through the canopy above now seemed more intent at deepening encroaching shadows than illuminating the way.

It was perfect.

Despite the knowledge that Geralt had despatched the creature in question near a week ago, his imagination needed no encouragement to fill in the gaps: Each shivering branch and scurry through the underbrush amplified tenfold, every darkened hollow held some foul monster lying in wait. 

It was _perfect_.

He should’ve noticed, probably, the stillness. The sudden lack of birds, the skittering of smaller creatures replaced by something larger, a shift and drag of a massive body through the yellowing leaves. 

He barely heard it before he caught something large and dark shooting into his field of vision, nearly knocking him over and slicing through the arm of his sweater.

Staggering and barely keeping on his feet, he turned and looked - right into an open maw. 

For a split second his mind faltered at the odd beauty of it, like a carnivorous flower. 

Another part of him recognised that the lumbering mass behind it was its body, hunkering back for a second strike.

Breath petrified in his lungs.

And he screamed.

The sudden noise might’ve halted it - he wasn’t sure - but not enough, and it lunged.

An arm wrapped around his waist and yanked him back. Grip tight, breath hot at the back of his neck. “/Stay down/,” growled into his ear, and then he was thrown to the ground.

For once in his life, Julian Pankratz did as ordered. 

Knees came up to his chest and arms covering his head as he pressed into the log he’d been pushed behind, echoes of his own heartbeat nearly drowning out the sounds of the fight happening above. 

He wasn’t sure how long it took - the rushing in his ears and the terrible clicking and hissing, thumping and clattering and inhuman shrieking, before it finally fell silent.

Heavy footfalls found their way to his side before strong hands gripped his jacket and hauled him upright. 

“Jaskier,” the familiar gravelled tone broke through the barrier in his mind and he looked up at his saviour’s- into _Geralt’s_ face, open and fearful in a way he hadn’t realised it could be.

“I’m fine,” he breathed, though he wasn’t sure, as Geralt’s hands kept roaming, patting and prodding, searching for anything less than whole. 

Golden eyes met his with such intensity, such veracity that he couldn’t breathe for the weight of them. Breathless, frozen, sluggish yet frenzied he did the only thing he could think of, the only thing he _could_ do to save himself from suffocating.

He dove forward, and he kissed him.

In the back of his mind he expected to be pushed away, but fussing hands settled in the fabric at his waist, and tugged him closer.

\--

It wasn’t until they’d made it out of the forest, safely within the confines of Geralt’s dusty 4WD, that Jaskier started raising questions.

“What was that thing, by the way?” he asked, slamming the passenger side door firmly shut.

“An arachas.”

Jaskier halted, mind whirring for a moment. “Isn’t that what you went after last week? I thought you said they were mostly solitary, that there’d only be one in a territory.”

“Couldn’t find its nest,” Twisting his torso around to back out, Geralt turned the car around on the dirt road. “Figured I’d have a better chance today, and came across your tracks.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jaskier shrugged in a manner all too nonchalant for someone who nearly got devoured by a gigantic spider an hour ago. “Glad to be of service!” 

The witcher shot him an indecipherable glance. 

A glance, Jaskier decided, he would very well have to _learn_ to decipher.

“Listening to the part where I told you to _be careful_ and _stay out of the woods,_ ” Geralt rumbled, “would’ve been helpful enough.”

Jaskier’s smile turned sheepish as he ran a hand through his thoroughly dishevelled hair, dislodging a few pine needles still tangled in it. Geralt fought to keep his eyes on the road. “Well, worked out alright in the end though, didn’t it?”


	5. the stanley hotel

“I think it’s right up here.” Jaskier squinted at his phone, trying to match the map on the screen to the streets they were driving through.

Surely enough, the hotel soon came into view.

It made an impressive sight, he had to admit, wide and sprawling and gleaming white in the evening light, a stark contrast to the mountain ridge rising beyond.

Suffice it to say, Geralt had a bad feeling.

His intuition proved regrettably accurate when he pulled the car up to unload their luggage.

The passenger side door was open almost before they’d stopped, and the seat vacated by the time he’d killed the engine.

“Welcome to the Stanley Hotel!" Jaskier exclaimed, gesturing widely toward it in case anyone present might’ve missed the enormous building to their left. “Built in 1909, this marvel boasts over 140 rooms, a hedge maze, a historic concert hall, billiard room, a whiskey bar, and a spectacular view of the Rockies.”

Geralt squinted at the hotel, then at his companion, waiting for the catch. It was stately. Beautiful, even. Jaskier was a sucker for romantic locations.

Jaskier also had a somewhat warped sense of romance.

And he had, after all, presented the excursion as a _working holiday_.

Jaskier took a deep breath, and Geralt steeled himself.

“It is also - “ There it was. “The most haunted hotel in America. In 1974, a single grueling night's stay in room 217 inspired Stephen King's best-selling masterpiece The Shining. But we, my darling Witcher, will be staying in room 401, infamous for the disembodied voices of laughing children, running footsteps, and a frankly hideous carpet."

Consternation twisted in his gut. “Don’t tell me we’re -”

“Ghost hunting,” Jaskier nodded. 

Geralt groaned.

“Oh, come now, darling! Don’t be like that! You may be my muse and my inspiration, but my social media needs a boost before the re-release and as you keep so very graciously reminding me, I’m not permitted to post about anything you do. Hence, ghosts!”

He considered getting back in the car and driving all the way home. Alone. Instead, he popped the trunk and hauled out Jaskier’s heaviest bag, slinging it over his own shoulder.

“I thought you said you didn’t do that, considering…”

“Just because _Valdo fucking Max_ is a tasteless hack and a charlatan,” Jaskier interrupted with sudden fervor. “It doesn’t mean _I_ can’t conduct an actual legitimate investigation.”

Geralt bent back down, hiding a smirk beneath the lid of the trunk.

“Why am I here, then?” He thrust one of the lighter bags into Jaskier’s open arms. 

“Because I love you and I want you with me always?” 

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Okay, fine. Be like that. I do, though. And I want to-do-a-liveseanceandIneedyout’holdth’cam’ra.”

Geralt blinked at him. “What?”

“I want to stream a live seance,” the writer-turned-ghost-hunter repeated at half speed. “And I need you to work the camera.”

Geralt stared at his boyfriend in exasperation. Jaskier beamed back.

“So you’ll do it?”

To his credit, he really did give it a second, pretending to think it over.

“No.”


	6. the terror of point pleasant

“Well?” Jaskier was sliding into the chair across the table before Geralt could even put the papers down, fingertips tapping out an upbeat rhythm on his steaming coffee mug. 

The morning light streamed in just the right side of blinding, turning stray waves of auburn hair warm gold, catching in eyelashes, turning already clear blue a nearly ethereal hue. Geralt always chose this spot for a reason. 

It almost - almost - eliminated the tired crease between his brows, the dark smudges under his eyes, or the way his voice sounded just a touch too strained for his disposition.

“You must have a review for me. Keep it short, a blurb or less.”

The author had been working hard lately, pushing through the final total overhauls before the day’s deadline, absorbed in the way he only really got at this stage in the process. Present and engaged but mind clearly divided, always halfway in his head, running lines of wording and mulling over structure. Foregoing meals for last-minute research, forgetting dates and appointments, letting fresh cups of tea go cold at his elbow while he stared blankly into thin air. Dishes on the coffee table. Laundry in the sink. 

Getting him to wrap up and stumble to bed the night before had a bigger challenge than clearing out that nekker nest last week.

All of this, despite the nice view, didn’t make the current situation any easier.

“It’s unrealistic." 

Anticipative smile not slipping even for a moment, Jaskier set his drink on the polished wood and leaned in, as though physically drawing the continuation out of his tablemate. 

“…What’s unrealistic?”

Geralt bit back a sigh.

“The creatures in your story. They don’t exist.” 

Jaskier leaned back and rolled his eyes so vehemently Geralt briefly worried for his optic nerves.

“Oh, bull- First of all, it’s _fiction_ , darling. Some artistic license is permissible.“ He reached over and seized the stack of papers, revoking all of Geralt’s manuscript reading privileges in one fell swoop.

“And second of all, I’ll have you know that the creature featured in this story is absolutely and verifiably real.” 

Raising a brow, Geralt pointedly drained his own mug.

“Oh, well, alright, just because _you’ve_ never encountered one in all of your - “ He gesticulated, wiggling his fingers in Geralt’s general direction. “ - your Witchering, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist! There are multiple collaborated accounts and credible witnesses, as well as decent photographic evidence, going back at least to 1966-”

“ _Jaskier_.” 

Fearing the ramifications of agitation at this point, bright-eyed but high-strung and threadbare as his boyfriend was, Geralt nipped the rant in the bud before it could pick up to its natural crescendo. 

“The Mothman does not exist.” And quickly added, as Jaskier raised a palm preparing a challenge: “And we are _not_ going to West Virginia to find out.”


	7. 'we need to talk'

Geralt met him at the door.

“I need to ask something of you.”

That was all Jaskier could get out of him though, at least until they were safely sequestered in the living area, silence growing more pressing by the second.

And in any other circumstance, those words would’ve been enough for Jaskier to jump in and do so wholeheartedly, unhesitatingly, without regard for risk or consequence. It would’ve been this time too, to be frank, if not for the tension ringing through Geralt’s entire form. And how he was  _ fussing _ .

“What is it, Geralt?” 

He tried to search the other’s face for clues but it yielded little, drawn tight and shuttered close. The Witcher had called him earlier that morning, voice raspy and grudging, inviting him over.

The words still tolled in his head like a bell.

_ We need to talk. _

Jaskier had tried to put a brake on how fast his mind flipped through worst-case scenarios, from how he might’ve found the short story Jaskier wrote when they first met - the one he’d published under a pseudonym - to  _ I’m going away for a while _ and  _ I can’t do this anymore _ . Come to think of it, those weren’t mutually exclusive.

Geralt breathed deep. “I have a contract for a succubus.” 

Jaskier’s train of thought screeched to a halt.

“But it’s an evasive one, it has to be summoned. And that will take… some assistance.”

Jaskier’s train of thought switched tracks.

“Don’t you usually ask Yennefer for that?” he asked, cautiously not getting ahead of himself. “I mean, isn’t she the one with the…” He twirled his hands. “…conjuring turns, or whatever?”

Geralt’s very handsomely chiselled jaw tensed further, until Jaskier half feared it would snap. “Not this time. This is too intelligent and too shrewd, it won’t let itself be tricked by a mage. We’ll need to lure it in with… With a human.”

It took a moment for the words to register, and another one for their meaning, but in his defense his day had just taken rather a turn. Once it did, it hit him full force.

“You… want to use me as bait?”

Mistaking the pause for hesitance, Geralt stepped closer. A hand came up to cup his face, so gently it nearly hurt, a roughened pad of a thumb barely brushing across his cheekbone. Sharp golden eyes bore down into his own and they might’ve crushed him, Jaskier thought, had he not already loved him. And that voice, deep and wrought, sending shivers down his spine.

“I’ll be right there to keep you safe. I’d never let anything harm you,” he vowed, the weight of the sentiment almost too much to bear. “You have my word.”

Too much to bear, almost.

Had he not already loved him. Wholeheartedly, unhesitatingly, recklessly.

And had he not already been hoping, wheedling,  _ begging _ to come with him on a contract since the day they met.

A wide grin spread across his face.

“What’s the dress code for this sort of thing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!
> 
> I just want to say a quick thanks to you guys for reading and commenting - some of you may have inspired an upcoming snippet! We'll see if the dialogue cooperates and in the mean time, I hope it serves as a reminder that I am listening very closely to your input and feedback 😘


	8. the winchester mystery house

“You don’t have to stay here tonight, you know.” 

Jaskier reached for the duffel bag Geralt had just set down on the table between them, the last of the gear brought in from the car. 

“Not that I don’t cherish your company, but if you’d rather catch up on some sleep, I understand. I won’t be doing much anyway. Film a Q&A and read a chapter preview, walk around a little, nothing I can’t manage on my own.”

They had already been there for the better part of the afternoon, Jaskier giving him a thorough tour of the seemingly endless twists and nonsensical turns of the winding mansion, recounting in vivid and presumptive detail the life and tragedies of the widow who had seen it built. 

The witcher quirked an eyebrow at him, amused. 

“No _ live seance _ this time? You finally found a paranormal tourist trap you didn’t fall for?”

“Oh, tosh! I’m sure it’s plenty haunted!” Waving dismissively, Jaskier pretended not to have heard the slight to his judgement. “Maybe not by the thousands of souls tied to the legend, but the ghost of Sarah Winchester herself is said to still knock about in the small hours of the night. After everything she went through and how much she invested here, wouldn’t that just be logical?”

Not particularly tempted to challenge a speculative fiction novelist’s idea of logic, Geralt gave an ambivalent hum in response, leaving Jaskier free to chase the next tangent of conversation.

“Ironic though, I suppose. Building this maze of a house to confuse and distract the spirits following her, only to become the only one trapped in it. What if she - wait. Wait. I can use that. Hang on.”

Something inside Geralt coiled around itself and turned soft watching Jaskier rummage through various pockets for his Field Notes and a pen. Ironic indeed: Standing over a tabletop’s worth of various electronic and battery-operated and incessantly beeping items meant to conjure up proof of the supernatural, the Witcher was fairly sure the notebook was the only one of his boyfriend’s devices that worked as intended.

He waited for the furrow between dark brows to lighten, for a peeking tongue-tip to flick across pink lips, before speaking. 

“So you’re sure you don’t need me to stay.”

Jaskier shrugged as he eventually folded the paper back together. “As tempting as it is to 

employ you to shoulder the burden of my surviving the night - and what marvellous shoulders they are -” He winked. “I’ll probably be fine.”

_ Probably _ .

Geralt’s mind strayed to the maze of corridors and stairways, turning around and back on themselves, and the endless scatter of unmapped rooms Jaskier had shown him when first touring the place. Damaged walls, unfinished floors, dead ends and trick doors - one in particular leading from the hall right into open air and a drop to the asphalt walkway two floors below.

He regarded his boyfriend. He thought it over. He frowned.

“I’ll stay,” he decided, serious despite the way Jaskier’s entire being perked up at the prospect. “You might be in actual danger here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have actual genuine plans to start picking up some threads and wanted to do it with this update - but alas, I got distracted by a potholder and ended up giving this little prewritten ditty an overhaul instead. I hope you'll forgive me.


End file.
